


The End

by dawnstruck



Series: tbc [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Bromance, F/M, Friendship, Irene is feeling lonely, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn’t say ‘Bitch in heat’ or ‘Back off’ or ‘Do something useful and get me a coffee, woman’ or any of the other thoughts that zap through his mind like shooting stars – pretty but meaningless and not quite worth his attention."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> To understand this you should probably read "To Be Continued", the first part in this series.

**The End**

 

Sherlock’s gaze moves across the wall in front of him as if it were a mirror and he could actually watch the movement of the person wandering up and down behind his turned back, but in fact he is only following the sound of slightly elevated breathing, of the rhythmic click click click, stiletto heels on worn parquet.

Irene is like a tigress in a cage, parading her beauty and her magnificence like a precious fur coat, every now and again pressing close to the bars, a deep purr like a growl making her throat vibrate.

She’s doing it again now, one hand casually brushing over his upper arm and then he can feel her breasts just below his shoulder blades.

“You’re nervous,” she murmurs against the shell of his ear, her chin brushing his collar. He’s staring straight ahead now. If the wall were a mirror he would be able to see his black pupils twitching. Twitching, but not dilating.

“And you’re aroused,” he answers in stride, because she is and he can smell it on her like he can smell that she had black coffee and croissants for breakfast. A coffee might be nice right about now, and a croissant, too. Irene’s arousal, though, doesn’t interest him in the slightest.

He doesn’t say ‘Bitch in heat’ or ‘Back off’ or ‘Do something useful and get me a coffee, woman’ or any of the other thoughts that zap through his mind like shooting stars – pretty but meaningless and not quite worth his attention.

Sherlock recalls their first meeting and how he couldn’t read her at all, how she was a blank sheet and he had wanted to write upon her in dark ink and stain her with his fingerprints. A minor obsession. When he was five he had been obsessed with dinosaurs, had wanted to know everything about them. But dinosaurs are extinct. Dinosaurs don’t matter anymore. Irene Adler doesn’t either.

He can read her now, or at least most of it, and it’s excruciatingly boring. She’s looking for sympathy. She doesn’t want him, not in a sexual way, but he’s here and she brought him here so surely there must be something.

“Why are we here?” he drawls out, not sure whether he’s even interested in the answer. She’s a bit like his brother in that way, ordering him somewhere, kidnapping him and bringing him into an old warehouse or something alike. When she called she sounded interesting and mysterious and promised him something really grand and he had been momentarily distracted and accepted the invitation. Now he regrets it.

Irene gently pushes herself away from him and resumes her pacing.

“Deduce it,” she demands. As if he were a trained poodle in a travelling circus. Sit, Sherlock, down, Sherlock, do a somersault, Sherlock. He ponders which option is worse: obeying her command or letting her believe that he can’t figure it out for himself.

They’re in the United States. Los Angeles, California. Loud and vast and easy to get lost in. Perfect for any kind of crime. He thinks of what he said nearly three years ago on top of a roof and how ridiculous the notion seems now. City of Angels. Pah.

And oh, how he loathes America, how he misses London, how travel-weary he has become. But Irene Adler has called him over from Toronto which was bad but no nearly as bad as LA. LA stifles him and presses him down until the dust of the streets clings to his sweaty face. Dirty, pathetic.

But she wanted to meet him and now they are here because she blackmailed him and because she pointed out that she was merely calling in the favor he still owed her. He’d regret contacting her back then if it weren’t for the fact that he had badly needed that information, information only she had been able to give him.

It’s funny how familiar she acts around him, as if she had known him for a long long time, as if maybe they were siblings, separated directly after birth. Only that it was probably somewhat wrong to think of her as a twin when everything she did was clearly intended to get a rouse out of him, or – even better yet – an arousal.

But Sherlock can’t help but repeat every tiny detail in his head, everything that has changed, everything that proves that they are merely strangers.

Her hair had been very long when they first met and dyed dark brown. It’s much shorter now, about shoulder-length, but she didn’t cut it that way, it had regrown after some sort of pixie cut, a warm hazelnut brown, her natural coloring but with highlights in between. She’s wearing it in big, elegant curls so they only reach down to her chin and they bounce gently with every step she takes. There are in-style sunglasses perched on top of her head and older imprints still left on the sides of her nose; she’s been wearing them regularly for a while, which is further proved by her  deep tan. She’s been in Los Angeles or similar climate for a while. She already contacted him three weeks ago, but only now had he reacted. It might be childish, but he had wanted to show her that he wasn’t at her beck and call.

“Don’t drift off!” she warns him now, her flat palm hitting his behind as if scolding an insolent child, “Answer my question!”

Still the same preferences. How tedious. She doesn’t work as the Woman anymore. She doesn’t have a homepage and role plays and paying clients. She needs other ways to express her deviation. That would explain the arousal that still lingers in the dry, dusty air.

“Mhm-no,” Sherlock muses and studies the torn wallpaper. The empty flat had last been lived in approximately two, last renovated about five years ago. The whole apartment building is deserted, just one of many in this so- so neighborhood. Even for her it’s a strange meeting place; a small café would have been nicer. He’d really like that coffee and the croissant.

“I’m hungry,” he tells her –or rather the peeling wallpaper – and it must be unexpected enough because the clicking of her heels pauses momentarily before she turns around sharply, scraping over the floor.

“Don’t you want to know why I called you here?” she urges and suddenly she’s between him and the wall, her hands on his chest.

“Don’t you want to know…” she continues and her gaze moves from her long fingers along his neck and finally up to meet his own piercing stare, “why I _wanted_ you?”

Sherlock lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Not particularly, no,” and he pinches her wrists between his forefingers and thumbs and lifts her hands off him as if she were an offending cockroach. Cockroaches are fascinating if you think about it. They are one of the oldest species, they are quite resistant even when it comes to nuclear radiation and when you cut their heads off they only die after a couple of weeks because of starvation. You still don’t want them anywhere in your flat.

An amused chuckle escapes Sherlock as he thinks about what would have happened if had not saved her all those years ago but instead actually beheaded her. Would she have gotten to her feet again and ran away until hunger finally made her pass out?

The chuckle throws Irene off guard. She draws back a bit and leans her head back to get a better look at him. He lets go off her hands, but they still hover their mid-air, and for a moment she seems tempted to either place her palms on his cheeks or close her fingers around his pale throat. Probably the latter. She _does_ enjoy sadomasochism.

“You’re in LA,” he tells her, “I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone who shares your interests instead of wasting my time on things I don’t care for.”

“Oh?” this time she really takes a step back and then turns away from him. Her vanity has been bruised. She’s still not used to people resisting her charm. “So you don’t want to know about the whereabouts of the arms dealers Sebastian Moran has been consorting with?” she asks mildly and a split second later Sherlock grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around.

“What are you talking about?!” he hisses, “What do you know?”

Her smirk is as dazzling as a single ray of sunshine reflecting on a broken piece of glass. “Everything,” she answers, her eyelids drooping, “Nothing.”

“Damn you!” Sherlock clenches and unclenches his fist. Sebastian Moran is the missing piece, the one thing that separates him from completing his mission, from finishing his journey, from returning home. He could be back in London in less than a month. He could be-  
“It’s your own fault,” Irene points out lightly but acts as if she had been personally offended, “If you hadn’t made me wait so long-“

“How long?!” Sherlock growls impatiently, “Are they still in the city? Is Moran?”

If he let that bastard get away because of his own stupidity, his stubbornness, his contempt, if he’s added another year of fruitless searching to his schedule just because he was too proud to answer Irene Adler’s call, so God help him, he would-

“You won’t find him,” Irene informs him with a vaguely disgusted expression, lifting her hand to delicately wipe a splatter of his spit from her cheek. For that grimace alone he wishes to really spit at her, directly into her face, and then lean forward to press a kiss to her lips and see how she likes that, but then the meaning of her words belatedly registers to his brain.

“What?” he asks dumbly although he has heard her perfectly well. Irene only smiles again.

“You won’t find Moran,” she repeats and something about him makes her let out a tinny chime of laughter.

Sherlock deflates like a balloon, all anger escaping him like thin, hot air. Moran is gone. Moran got away again. And now Sherlock has to start anew.

The problem is that Irene is neither an ally nor an opponent. She’s the audience, curiously watching from the sidelines, every now and then waving a hand and cheering for both teams. That makes her more potentially dangerous than any real enemy. And yet Sherlock still asks.

“What’s he planning?” he demands because surely she must know something more, “Where has he gone?”

“Nothing,” she replies, a simpering smile gracing her lips, “And nowhere you could follow him.”

Sherlock bares his teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snarls, but Irene only shrugs elegantly.

“You’re not the only one playing this game, Sherlock,” she tells him and runs a fingernail over the sharp curve of his cheekbone, “And not a single one is playing by the rules.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Sherlock presses out, pausing between every word.

“I hired a hit man,” Irene says simply, like a gleeful sister ruining her brother’s birthday surprise, “You might want to meet him.”

“What would I do with a hit man?” he asks suspiciously, dismissing the possibility that she might actually be out for his life, “Moran is a marksman himself. He’s fully capable of defending himself.”

Irene’s grin cuts the air like a bullet. “Maybe,” she admits, “But the back of his head isn’t.”

For a moment Sherlock just stares. Hit man. Bullet. Moran’s head. She can’t mean-

Suddenly there are feet thundering up the creaking stairway outside. Sherlock backs away from Irene and pulls out his gun, listening closely for the sounds of the steps. Judging by the weight and movement a male, short, stocky build, most likely armed. Irene’s hit man? Her lasting grin confirms the suspicion. But what’s her intention? First killing Moran and now him? It doesn’t make sense.

And why had she brought him here, why warn him about it, why not shoot him through the window or while he’s down on the street, unassuming and out in the open. They’re in a shady part of LA. No one would pay much attention. Why have the hit man coming up the stairs when Sherlock is obviously carrying a weapon himself?

His eyes flicker from the closed door to Irene and back again. He’s tempted to shoot her, just for the hell of it, even if it means that he might never get any answers. For once Sherlock Holmes doesn’t want any answers. He only wants to go home. But the barrel of his gun remains firmly trained on the door.

The person outside comes to an abrupt halt, closes his fingers around the knob, pauses, breathes heavily. He ran up all the way to the sixth floor. Idiot. Sherlock gauges the thickness of the wood and whether the force of his bullets is strong enough to cut right through and still do considerable damage. Instead he keeps his hands steady and waits.

“The door is open,” Irene calls out, her gaze never leaving Sherlock. Oh. Maybe she just wants to get rid of the hit man without getting her hands bloody. Simply letting him do the dirty work and pulling her head out of the noose. But no, there’s more to it.

The wood creaks as the knob is turned, and then the door is flung open. Sherlock’s finger flexes along the trigger.

Blue eyes. That is the only thing he registers at first, and only then the blurred edges around that fact start to come back into focus. Blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, tan skin. Worn Nike trainers, dark blue shorts, white cotton tee shirt with ‘Beach Party’ and a few palm trees printed across the chest.

An undefined sound breaks free from the back of Sherlock’s throat. Beach Boy imitates it and for a second Sherlock wonders wildly whether he is wearing the same dumb-struck yet pain-stricken expression on his face. The strange thing is that Beach Boy somehow manages to throw a smile into the mix and suddenly he has the sun painted across his lips.

“Bloody hell,” Beach Boy laughs and steps into the room, “Put away that gun, you wanker.”

And then he’s only a few feet away, grabs Sherlock’s wrist, wrestles the weapon from him, emgages the safety and tosses it to the floor.

Irene is suddenly standing half behind him, gently pushing him forward. “Go on,” she says, “Kiss him. I’ve been waiting for this for ages.”  
Beach Boy lets out a short, disbelieving laugh and the spell is broken.

“John,” Sherlock breathes and still doesn’t know whether it’s real.

“Long time no see,” John says and his eyes are grey-blue and his teeth are not as white as the toothpaste he always used promised and his skin is almost as tan as it had been when they first met and Sherlock can count every single pore across his cheeks and the label of his shirt is sticking out at the back of his neck so Sherlock reaches out to tuck it back in, but then his fingertips make contact with warmth and life and next thing he knows his arms are slung around John’s peculiarly quaking shoulders.

John laughs which is unusual for there are tears in his eyes, but then Sherlock listens and hears that he is laughing along and notices that he can taste salt on his own lips. Happy tears. First time experience. Interesting.

“You’re alive,” John is huffing into his hair, “You’re seriously alive.”

“Forgive me,” Sherlock is saying and isn’t it strange that the last thing he said to John had been an apology as well? And yet he repeats it over and over, either in his head or out loud, he doesn’t quite know.

“I had to,” he says and hears his own voice through a thick London fog, “It was the only way. I had to.”

“Yes,” John answers and it must be the adrenaline that makes him giggle like that, “Yes, I know.”

“Isn’t that touching,” Irene comments from behind them and then there is a click and a flash and has that seriously just snapped a picture of him squeezing John like a teddy bear? That’s got to be worse than the photograph with the hat. Then again… maybe not. He never liked the hat. John is an altogether different matter.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks disbelievingly although he already knows the answer, “You killed Moran?”

“Had to,” John replies and places his fingers around Sherlock’s upper arms to push him back a bit and get a proper look at him.

“Bloody hell,” he shakes his head, his eyes raking across Sherlock’s gaunt face, “Have you always been this tall?”

Sherlock grunts, “I might as well inquire whether you have shrunk.”

“No, I guess we both stayed the same,” John concedes and yes, maybe they have. Despite all that has happened in between they have not changed enough to ruin what they had left behind.

“Such a heart-warming reunion,” Irene muses slyly; she’s taken to circling them, the tigress left out of her cage, believing to have found an easy prey. Sherlock’s scalp is positively crawling, hating her for imposing on this moment, for witnessing how he lets down his guard.

But he has no choice but to acknowledge that her interference led to a speedier conclusion of his plans.

He takes a step back, enough to put some reasonable distance between him and John, but not enough to carry him out of arms’ reach.

“So you took care of Moran,” he establishes the blatantly obvious, a frown creasing his forehead as he scrutinizes John’s unassuming posture, no tension in his shoulders, no nervousness in his gaze.

“How?” he asks, for once not having the patience to work it out for himself, “When?”

Irene smirks beatifically. “Two weeks ago,” she declares and then places her black widow hand on top of John’s shoulder, sidling up with him, the front of her body smothered against the length of his arm. Sherlock curses himself for stepping back and giving her an opportunity to take his place.

“Oh, my dear John did beautifully,” she praises in a breathy tone, “With perfect aim like that it’s a wonder he hasn’t yet expanded his field of expertise to a more…dubious clientele.”

She has to lean down, just a tiny bit, to press her mouth to John’s jaw, wetly dragging her lower lip up to his ear, leaving a smudge of Bordeaux red.

John’s gaze momentarily flickers to where she is standing much too close, but other than that he doesn’t react at all.

 “I’m proud of you,” she sighs against his antitragus and Sherlock hates the familiarity between the two of them, hates how John is obviously used to her schemes, how it doesn’t throw him off.

With a start Sherlock realizes that the tight feeling in his chest in jealousy, that he envies Irene Adler for obviously having had the chance to spend an extended amount of time with John.

Two weeks, she had said, two weeks since John had killed Moran with a precisely placed bullet to the brain. Most likely he’s been in California even longer than that if the shade of his skin is anything to go by. No tan lines, though. Trying to blend in as a tourist maybe? Had the beach boy enjoyed hot days and cool nights at the sea, smooth sand between his toes?  Had Irene clung to his arm and led him through the shopping boulevards as if he were a spoiled Chihuahua?

Sherlock watches with silent anger as Irene places a fingertip in the hollow of John’s neck and then traces the line of his collarbone. Her eyes are intently fixed on her new pet. But then, just for half a second, her gaze whips over to Sherlock and then back; a smirk twists the curve of her mouth upwards and that is enough for Sherlock to know that all of this is still just a game to her. By now Sherlock is getting so tired of games, but it seems that Irene is intent on letting him fight for the last piece.

“Alright, enough of that,” John decides in that moment and shrugs her off. And just like that he has cast the dice and settled the outcome of the game. Sherlock has won. Finally.

“C’mon, you pillock,” John holds out his hand to him, “With our superb connections we should be able to catch an early flight and be home by tomorrow evening.”

Sherlock accepts the offered hand. It’s warm and dry and calloused and familiar and fits perfectly into his own; he tightens his grip and holds on to this lifeline.

“Oh,” he realizes what John has just said, “That bastard. So Mycroft knew all along.”

John only gives an embarrassed chuckle and that is enough of an answer. Figures that Mycroft was involved in all of this. He had not only known that Irene was alive, no, he had even supported or at least supervised her and John. It’s outrageous. Hadn’t he been aware of the fact that he had threatened Sherlock’s entire plan, that he had pushed John directly into the path of danger? Oh, Sherlock would give him some serious beating once he was back. Metaphorically speaking, of course. With all of Mycroft’s spies around it was practically impossible to catch a quiet minute with the man without having anyone interfere.

“By the way, you look like shit,” John tells him in a roundabout way and pulls him in with the hand he is still holding, “Let’s grab something to eat and find a quiet place to talk. I reckon you have quite a few stories to tell.”

Sherlock grimaces, “Are you planning on writing them down in your blog?”

John’s smile wavers a bit, “Have you read my blog since… well, since?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He hadn’t dared to, instead relying on Molly’s monthly reports. She had told him that about one year after his supposed death John had finally started to recover. Things had been looking up.

“Oh,” he says, his eyes widening, “That’s when you found out.”

John doesn’t seem to need a translation for that apparently random remark. He nods. “Irene here gave me a not-so-subtle hint,” he explains, “Not that I ever really believed any of the bullshit you told me back then.”

“I had to,” Sherlock repeats for he isn’t sure how he can ever make up for what he has done.

“Yes, Sherlock, yes. It’s fine. You don’t have to keep beating yourself up over this,” for some unfathomable reason John is telling the truth; but then he adds as an afterthought, “Although _I_ might beat you later on.”

Sherlock smiles. He’s had worse.

“I’m sure Sherlock might enjoy some punishment,” Irene chuckles and then pushes him as if urging him back into John’s arms, “But do me a favor and take it to the bedroom, boys.”

Sherlock snorts, twists his head back and cocks an eyebrow at her, “Wouldn’t you rather like to watch?”

Irene’s eyes widen, pupils dilate. Yes, of course she’d like to watch. Stupid question.

“Don’t tempt her,” John warns him, “It’s weird enough as it is.”

“So I guess you don’t much care for a threesome?” Irene teases and John blushes, “No, not right now, thanks.”

“Later then?”

John snaps his mouth shut, “Right. Sherlock, we should get going.”

Sherlock has to bite his lower lip because his answering smile is so big and bright that it splits his face in halves, making his cheeks ache faintly. John grins back as if he had never done anything else in his life.

They leave Irene standing in the deserted flat, their shoulders brushing as they tread down the stairs side by side.

Out on the street, in the glare of white sun on hot asphalt, John raises an arm to hail a cab. Sherlock uses the opportunity to pull out his phone and within seconds he has opened the blog of Doctor John Watson. It had been updated exactly nineteen months and six days ago. The last entry consists of only three words.

“Put that away, will you,” John complains with a pointed glare at the mobile, “The least you could offer me as an apology is your undivided attention for the next, say, eternity.”

He has a point so Sherlock obeys and lets himself be wrestled into the waiting cab. John slides onto the seat next to him, pulling the door shut behind them. Even after all this time it’s such a familiar situation that Sherlock’s chest throbs with the unknown sensation of having his homesickness cured.

But this is just the first cab ride of many more to come. To be continued, John had written in his blog.

With a faint but content smile Sherlock closes the case file in his head and mentally signs the last entry of his logbook.

_The Great Hiatus by Sherlock Homes_

_The End_

 

I

**Post Scriptum:**

For a long while Irene just stands there and stares at the empty threshold.

Finally she walks over to the wall and studiously inspects the spot that Sherlock had been riddling with his stares not even half an hour ago. She touches her fingertips to it and scrapes her long red nails down along the wallpaper; the sensation makes an unpleasant shiver run down her spine. Was this patch of faded yellow really so much more interesting than her, so much more appealing that Sherlock Holmes – who had once been unable to tear his gaze off of her – chose to focus his attention on that instead of on how she moved her hips or held her head?

But no. He had deemed her unworthy of even wasting his breath on her, had made her wait three weeks until he finally graced her with his presence. The man who had saved her life had barely even spared her a glance.

And then John whom she had harassed with her voice and her body, at first just out of habit because that’s what she does, that’s who she is, and then out of vanity and stubbornness for he would not give in, he would not yield, he would reject and rebuff and repel her time and time again.

Oh, how frustrating it how been, how maddening, how insulting, and yet- And yet she had been thrilled. Thrilled that this ordinary man had resisted her as if she were a young girl with a crush on her handsome tutor. Irene isn’t a stranger to that kind of role play. It is just that she is more used to being the strict teacher herself, punishing the ill-mannered student with a slap to the fingers and a few sharp words.

But John Watson is one of a kind.

Single-mindedness, she thinks to herself, that’s one way to describe both John’s and Sherlock’s attitude, their drive, their lifestyle. Obsession, though, she adds mildly, might be a more accurate one.

They are obsessed with each other in ways she can barely begin to understand and the mere thought of it makes heat spread in the pit of her stomach, slowly sinking down down down until it settles teasingly between her thighs.

Maybe it’s just her vivid fantasy and her loneliness that makes her envision how they can barely contain themselves as they leave the building, how they hold back during the cab ride, a safe distance between them on the backseat, until finally the reach whatever dump Sherlock is staying at and they can finally give in.

“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match,” she murmurs to herself, nails digging into the unrelenting material, “Find me a find, catch me a catch.”

Funny, how she had been playing matchmaker all along, how she had brought those idiots back together and that despite all that she had never even gotten so much as a thanks. Men are all ungrateful bastards. She should have known.

Still, it had been worth it. Maybe she would visit them in London again, see how they are doing. Or maybe she should just find somewhere else to make some ruckus.

Reaching up to right the sun glasses on top of her head with a precise motion, Irene grins to herself. Yes, that sounds like fun. Let the reunited lovers relive their honeymoon.  She’d start her own party somewhere.

 

_“Night after night in the dark I’m alone, so find me a match of my own.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Because everyone in this show (Irene, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade - and even Moriarty) is trying to play matchmaker. Which is why "Fiddler on the Roof" ended up in here as well.


End file.
